


a more delicate condition

by ArgylePirateWD



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Belly Rubs, Eggpreg, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Nonconsentacles, Oviposition, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-02 13:35:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,694
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20276749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ArgylePirateWD/pseuds/ArgylePirateWD
Summary: After running afoul of a number's pet tentacle monster, Harold finds himself in an unpleasant situation.





	a more delicate condition

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PolkaDotDoomShroom](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PolkaDotDoomShroom/gifts).

> Warnings: Nonconsensual eggpreg, water breaking, and references to eventual assbirth

Harold had come up with countless scenarios for how working the numbers would lead to his demise. His death would be violent. Intentional, maybe, maybe not. Painful, most likely. Inflicted by something mundane, like a bullet or a blade or another bomb, almost definitely. Whether the perpetrator was some criminal or one of Samaritan's agents remained to be seen, but whoever killed him would be human.

This situation, however...

"When I said one of us would probably wind up dead, this?" Harold said, words interspersed with rasping, labored breaths. "This is most certainly _not_ what I had in mind."

Another cramp tore through his distended abdomen, and he clutched at it, despite the futility of the gesture. Their number's pet had left quite the parting gift. The eggs had been small at first, lying in a heavy lump across his lower belly. It had been uncomfortable then, but a normal sort of discomfort, no worse than most gut ailments. Age and painkillers meant he was no stranger to gastrointestinal distress, and as far as that went, early gestation had been on the milder end of the spectrum.

Then, the eggs had started to grow.

In the hours since he'd been—_Fucked_, his mind said, _don't skirt around it, Harold; that thing most definitely _fucked_ you._ In the hours since he'd been fucked by the strange creature with the tentacles, the eggs had grown and shifted, filling his insides until his belly was swollen. He could feel the outlines of them now if he pressed hard enough, firm but yielding spheres beneath his flesh. The pain had stayed within the realm of tolerable, relieved by an occasional hand pressed to a twinge or slid over the aching bulge. Until it started to hurt.

"Both," John gently corrected. "You said both of us."

"So I did." Lying on his side was doing nothing for the pain. Perhaps sitting up would be better after all. He heaved himself upright, and nearly toppled over. With horrifying visions of landing on his tender belly and bursting all over the carpet, he grasped for John's arm. John immediately rushed to his aid, pulling him upright, then slipping in behind him, legs bracketing Harold's hips. Harold slumped back against him, whimpering and breathless and so very tired.

It was funny how the incubation process compared to what preceded it. The actual impregnation had easily been one of the most astonishingly pleasurable experiences of Harold's life, a glorious onslaught of delicious sensations. Agile tentacles had explored every inch of his body, stroking him with pure intent, in ways that were unmistakably intimate. They'd wound around his cock and jerked him off, slid into his hole and teased him into desperate incoherence, until he was _begging_ the creature to do more.

By the time the monster had finished with him and John found him, Harold was floating in the haziest post-orgasmic daze of his life, covered in fluids, uncomfortably full but otherwise eager to do all of it again.

He should have known the feeling wouldn't last.

"You know, I'd ask if you were okay," John said, "but I'm pretty sure you'd break your promise to never lie to me, wouldn't you?"

Harold chuckled, and oh, god, that was a mistake. It shook his belly, sending shocks of breathtaking pain across the gravid swell, setting off sickening squirming movements from the tiny creatures within. "No," he replied, and swallowed against a wave of nausea. "No, I'm not so sure I would. This is—and, please, pardon my language, but I simply must say it as it is—fucking horrendous."

At that, John sounded almost as pained as Harold felt. "Jesus."

"I'm fairly certain he played no part in this fiasco." The pain was nigh indescribable, even for someone with his level of experience in coping with pain. It was like a near-constant spasm, an unbearable fullness, a burning and heavy and deep agony that narrowed the world's focus down to an orb roughly the size of a basketball—and growing. All he could do was breathe through it. He rubbed at his bare, swollen middle, trying and trying and _trying_ to calm his strained insides. It didn't help. "I suspect most people would be screaming right now, to be honest. Or perhaps they'd be past that point." Another cramp left him groaning.

"That bad, huh?"

"_Worse,_" he replied. "This is, unquestionably, worse than you are imagining, John."

Beneath his palms, he felt the creatures move inside their gelatinous sacks—incongruously gentle pokes coming from nearly everywhere within him. Had he the energy, he would have been desperately clawing at his middle, in a vain attempt to remove them himself. But he was exhausted, hurting, sweating, in so much pain nearly all he could do was let out clipped and quiet little breaths and massage his steadily growing belly.

"And the worst part is not the pain," Harold continued. "No, the worst part is the internet."

"The internet?" John wrapped an arm around him. Any other time, Harold would have resisted the contact. Any other time, John wouldn't have initiated it. Harold would have demanded privacy and solitude, and nursed his pain in private. John would have hated it, but respected his wishes. This time, though, Harold suspected they both knew what the outcome of this event would be.

Their attempt to forcibly evict the eggs via enema had failed miserably. Calling one of their old allies with medical training was out, thanks to Samaritan. Shaw was gone. The Machine and Root were searching for a suitable alternative, but who knew if Root would return before something vital ruptured?

It would not be a quick, easy death, and Harold was frightened.

"The internet," Harold repeated. "When I was building The Machine, I saw a great many things on the internet. One of those things was pornography focusing on this very scenario. The internet assured me that this sort of thing would be quite the pleasurable experience." He paused to catch his breath. "And it is not."

"I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do?" John said, running his hand up and down Harold's arm. It should have been on his stomach, Harold thought. It would do more good there. Not much, but any relief was better than none. "More drugs, anything? Maybe knock you out?"

"No," Harold replied. "The drugs are doing nothing, and if...if this is the end, I'd still rather not spend my last moments unconscious." Then, emboldened by his imminent demise, resolve weakened by how much his belly _hurt_, he added, "Perhaps...perhaps if you rubbed my abdomen, it could help."

"Okay." John didn't hesitate. He placed a hand carefully upon Harold's tight middle, barely any pressure at all. Almost instantly, a wave of pure calm spread through Harold's belly, warm and wonderful. The creatures and his cramping insides stilled. The pain didn't vanish, but it was bearable, something he could handle. Harold gasped, and John yanked his hand away with a contrite, "Shit, sorry."

"No, that was—" The pain came rushing back, making him choke on his words. He groaned, and whispered, "Please, John, it helped," in a tiny voice he almost didn't recognize as his own.

There was no logical reason for the touch to feel so good. His guts were a writhing mass of agony, but the second John splayed his hand on Harold's belly again, something settled. John's palm was cool and dry against Harold's overheated, damp skin, a cautious and comforting weight. He slid it over Harold's drum-taut midsection, slow and gentle, and Harold sighed with relief and sagged back against him.

"That's it," John said, words soft against Harold's ear. "I've got you." His hand moved in circles over Harold's belly, broad spirals that sent pleasant warmth spreading through Harold's veins, languid and honey-sweet. Perhaps it helped development of the creatures, Harold mused, as his brain gradually regained the capacity for thoughts bigger than _oh, my belly hurts_ and _I'm dying_. Something about a relaxed incubator being beneficial, maybe?

But touch didn't usually relax him this much. He needed some occasionally, yes, like most people, but a touch to his pained abdomen? In any other situation, it would have left him in worse shape than before, tense and cringing away, retreating. This felt _heavenly_, disproportionately heavenly. There had to be something else at play here. Something other than the fact that it was John, the only person that he trusted completely.

"You're gonna be okay, Harold." John's voice shook. Unexpectedly, he kissed the back of Harold's head. "You're gonna be okay."

Despite John's relieving touch, another cramp stabbed Harold in the side. Another jabbed him near his now-protuberant navel. "I highly doubt it. This is...a far more delicate condition than any typical pregnancy. I feel as though all it will take is one wrong move, and I will be reenacting the infamous Mr. Creosote scene."

"I'll be sure not to feed you any mints," John said.

"Yes, please refrain." As he spoke, the pain started creeping back in, and his voice became steadily more strained. "Oh, it's starting to—starting to hurt again."

"You're getting bigger," John said. "I can feel it."

"Yes, as can I." He'd grown from _basketball_ to _full-term pregnancy_ in the span of a few minutes. and would likely hit and surpass _twins_ and _triplets_ very soon. It was a curious sensation, feeling his belly gradually swell to strange proportions. It was at once similar to unpleasant digestive conditions yet unmistakably _different_. He wondered how large he would get. Could whatever strange thing that was keeping him alive despite his impossible growth continue functioning indefinitely, or would his belly eventually burst?

The pain ratcheting back up suggested the latter was a likely outcome, and soon. In the back of his head, he rated it—a modest four when John first touched him, then creeping back up to five, six, seven. Eight, again, the kind of pain one couldn't hide, that had him moaning and swearing under his panting breaths.

"Shh, I've got you," John said, his other hand moving to Harold's belly, as Harold's breaths grew increasingly ragged.

It didn't help this time. The creatures were shifting again, his belly was growing again, stretching and writhing. "Oh," he murmured, repeating it over and over again between groans like some twisted mantra of pain. John kept shushing him, kept rubbing his belly like somehow physical comfort might help, but it didn't. Nothing was helping. If his body still moved that way, he would've been squirming as much as the undulating creatures in his belly, but he couldn't. He couldn't do anything. And it hurt. All he could think about was his belly, and, dear god, his belly hurt.

"C'mon, Harold," John said, the movements of his hands getting frantic, turning from soft strokes to kneading and squeezing, and Harold's mind clung to the sound of his voice, "help me out here. There's gotta be something I can do to help you."

"Just make me a promise," Harold said. "Whatever happens to me, whenever these things come out, however they come out—"

"Harold..."

"—I am most likely not going to be in any shape to take any sort of action, regardless of the outcome." He paused for air. The pressure in his abdomen was making it so much harder to breathe. If he got much bigger, he feared it might become impossible—if he still needed oxygen at all by then. "I need you to promise me that you will destroy whatever it is I give birth to. We must ensure that this does not happen to anyone else."

"Of course," John said. "I'll kill every single one."

As if John would do anything else. The minute this was over, their number would be dead at John's hands, if John hadn't done it already. Harold had been a too bit preoccupied when John announced that he'd wrapped up the case to care about what had happened to Mr. Charleston. And he didn't feel nearly as bad about that as he should have. The man was breeding these creatures, planning to inflict this excruciating torture upon others to grow more. He needed to be stopped.

Harold started to thank John, started to say more, but the entire mass inside him _shifted_, and a wave of liquid gushed out of him. He doubled over, crying out, nearly blacking out, and when he came back to himself, everything felt lower, and John was calling his name.

But he felt...better. Emptier, certainly. He glanced down, expecting to see his gray trousers and the tan carpet covered in blood, but what little he could see over his abdomen merely looked like water. "Oh, that is _revolting,_" he muttered. It was easier to breathe, and he took advantage, taking deep, gulping breaths before he answered John.

"I'm all right," he said, "considering the circumstances." His belly still hurt, but the pain was down to a refreshing six again, and he seemed to have stopped growing. There was a sense of urgency within him, an unpleasant but familiar pressure deep within his core. "I never imagined I'd have to utter the phrase, 'My water just broke,' in reference to myself one day, and yet..."

Then, he realized that if it was all over him, it was likely all over John, too. His face heated up. "Oh dear. John, I'm—"

"I'm just glad you're not bleeding out," John said.

"It's disgusting," Harold insisted.

"It is. But you're still alive. That's all that matters to me."

So he was. It was almost time, and Harold was still alive.

Slowly, laboriously, he pulled away from John, cradling his swollen belly as he moved. "I think," he said, getting to his feet, the protesting pain in his hip and back mere afterthoughts compared to his stomach, "that I am about to learn what giving birth feels like." For the first time in years, perhaps even his entire life, he didn't hesitate before dropping his ruined pants and underwear. His gut was much weirder than the body parts and scarred skin hidden by his trousers, and John had already seen that and the rest of him. What would be the point in hiding anything else?

Another wave of cramping left him swaying on his feet, and John caught him, gripping his bare hips with strength and care. "I've got you," John said, sliding his hands up under Harold's arms. "Where do you want to go?"

It was so hard to think, threads of thought refusing to connect through the haze of pain and fear. Where—bathroom. It had a seat for him in the shower, and he suspected this would be messy. "Shower. And, John? Any assistance you are willing to provide would be appreciated, but if you'd rather not stick around for this likely gruesome process..."

Gently, John turned him around, and looked deep into his eyes. Harold shivered, and his breath caught in his chest. "I'm not going anywhere, Harold," John said, settling a hand on Harold's belly and stroking it gently. "Not unless you want me to go."

"I don't," Harold admitted, not looking away from John's wide blue eyes. "I don't want you to go."

"Good," John whispered. Then he leaned in and pressed his lips to Harold's, too briefly for Harold to kiss him back like he wanted.

Harold made a soft, protesting noise, and grabbed John's jacket by the lapels. He couldn't pull John as close as he wanted, with his massive belly in the way, and couldn't move in for a kiss himself either. Frustrated, he huffed. "John..."

"Later, Harold," John said, placing his hands gently over Harold's. "You can kiss me later, when you're feeling better."

_Assuming I survive this,_ Harold wanted to say, but refrained. He doubted John would appreciate his pessimism. "Later, then," he said. "I will—" The eggs shifted again, doubling him over. "Oh..." he breathed, hands shooting back to his spasming middle.

"I'm not going anywhere," John repeated, then scooped Harold up into his arms, with only the tiniest grunt of effort. "Now, let's go kick some tentacle monster ass."

**Author's Note:**

> Mr. Creosote is a character in _Monty Python's Meaning of Life_ who meets a messy end.


End file.
